Oceanic
by marcus aure1ius
Summary: It is her first time driving out of Sunnydale. The late summer sun glares off the hoods of passing cars and she wishes that she had remembered to bring sunglasses. You are now leaving Sunnydale. Please come back soon.


**Disclaimer:** All intellectual property pertaining to Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and 20th Century Fox. I claim ownership over this story alone.

Kudos to atz for proofreading.

**- **

**Oceanic**

**- **

It is her first time driving out of Sunnydale. The late summer sun glares off the hoods of passing cars and she wishes that she had remembered to bring sunglasses. You are now leaving Sunnydale. Please come back soon. She had been in such a rush to leave the house. Grab the jacket. Deliver a platitude of thanks to Giles. And she is speeding past the lazy afternoon traffic on the interstate, away from the flooded basement; broken coffee table; stockpile of overdue bills; anxious, expectant glances they do not think she would notice; and Spike, who is all of a sudden quiet and observant and content to simply share the silence with her. Everything is different, and worse.

On the radio a catchy rock song she would have liked during her previous life blares. The lyrics are trite, like everything these days. She drives vacant-eyed, knuckles white on the steering wheel. An hour passes and she spots the exit sign, a bright rectangular display of green and white that hurts her eyes. Too bright and cheerful. For an instant she is tempted to keep driving her mother's SUV and never return. An oppressive weight twists her insides and her fingers tighten around the steering wheel. The ramp bends onto a narrow road, twisting, winding, leading her to a town of aged wood-paneled bungalows and single pump gas stations.

An invisible hand compresses her chest as she nears the end of town. Anticipation piles up like marbles on a playground pavement. The driver side door slams shut behind her and she is certain that he will know. Not like the others. In front, the endless expanse of Pacific glitters like a shifting sheet of sapphires. The air smells of salt and beached seaweed. She picks a path through tall, scraggly grass, the stiletto heels of her brown leather boots sink into the sand with each step. The sun is still high and she is hours early.

She stops yards away from the water's edge and unzips her boots and tugs them off along with the socks. She shades her eyes and takes in the ocean stretching into a sky so blue and clouds so white that the world peels back and all that is left is the lulling rhythm of the tide. It is so different from the beaches she used to frequent. It is a quietness distilled. She watches transfixed the waves collapsing onto the shore, each nudging forward a receding line of white foam and wetted sand a deeper shade of sepia. Come, retreat. Come, retreat.

She walks to the surf, the grains of silicon and crushed calcium rough and warm beneath her feet. The water slides over her toes with a shock of cold. It takes her a minute to remember to roll up her pant legs. The incoming tide eddies around her feet, pushing and pulling at the sand until miniature trenches form where her toes and heels once rested and she must clench her toes to maintain balance. All around her, the sea surges and stirs, and she wonders if it would be so bad to let herself be washed away.

The clouds begin to color with the dipping horizon, great big cumuli of spun pink and orange cotton candy her father used to buy for her at Disneyland. Out on the sea the crest of each wave is lined with light, thousands of crimson streams running together—it's dazzling and beautiful to her in a way that nothing else has ever been beautiful. It is, she thinks, the most beautiful thing she has ever seen besides heaven. The last rays of the sun come down on her skin and for a moment, her heart feels weightless.

Angel arrives minutes later.

"Buffy," he murmurs, a faint whisper that hangs in the air like an uncertain question.

Her head whips around and he is there. Just beyond the water. As if he had materialized from nowhere. From the night itself. He is as she's always remembered. The pale shimmer from the stars above reflects off his already pale features, accentuating dark eyes and high cheekbones. It is silly, but a part of her is surprised that his appearance has not changed at all since the funeral. So handsome. Her heart nearly bursts at the sight of him. She cannot decide whether to laugh or cry at the way he fixes her with his eyes. So, she does neither as she runs to him, uncaring that the cold salt would leave stains as droplets sink into her khaki slacks and vaguely noting that the water has risen to just below her knees.

Her arms clamp around his neck, pulling him down. She attacks his mouth, thrusting her tongue past his cold, soft lips. He holds her, tense and tenuous at first, as if afraid at any moment she will dissolve into the rolling surf. The kiss is fierce, all teeth and desperation. It means everything and nothing. His hands grip her lower back, lifting her inches upward. A longing of a different kind begins to build deep within her. Lightheaded, she digs her fingers into the soft leather of his coat and wishes he does not have to leave in the morning. Forever, she had asked of him. She almost laughs at the absurdity of the request now. Now that she knows what forever is. Gently, she pushes herself free. Angel sets her down but does not let her go. He cradles her face in his large hands and studies her and she studies him.

"Angel," she whispers. The greeting sounds wholly inadequate. I love you. Stay with me. The words strangle in her throat and she swallows instead.

A slow smile blooms across his face. Angel stares at her with his dark eyes wide. "Is this real?" he asks. "Are you real? Am I awake?"

She nods, once, as if to say, of course, though she wishes it were not.

He pulls her close again and lays a soft kiss on her crown, inhaling the scent of her with singular indulgence. Gladly, Buffy burrows her head into the familiar contours of his chest. The metallic teeth of his zipper bite into the sensitive flesh of her cheek. She wants to stay there forever.

"I wouldn't let myself believe it," he says, his voice shaking, "Even when we spoke on the phone."

A tentative smile lifts the corners of her lips. A hundred confessions surge through her. She has been waiting too long, the thoughts have been building behind a wall and now the wall has cracked and the torrent is slipping past her defenses. She yearns to tell someone other than Spike, yearns to tell Angel what she remembers of heaven—the warmth and peace. The nagging sensation that she has lost something terribly beautiful, that already she feels robbed of some otherworldly perspective, some lovely dream fallen away.

"When Willow told me, a part of me died that day. God, Buffy, I should've been there to save you." He laughs then, hoarse and grating. "I was so angry, I could have killed myself for letting you suffer like I did."

"What?" she gasps, but cannot be sure if she asks it aloud. By the way Angel continues to speak, she realizes that she had not. The rest of his words are incomprehensible, the sound of waves crashing all around them becoming at once thunderous to her ears. Dimly, she hears bits and fragments. A monastery. Mourning. But she's heard enough. A numbing chill spreads from her spine. None of it means a damn thing. She notices the darkness of the waves then, lapping over the sand like spilt ink. So welcoming. And she wants to throw herself into their depths but her body freezes, ice chunks of disillusionment rattle through her gut. She is far away as she lifts her head towards the stars blazing in their lightless tracks, blinking and guttering.

"Buffy?"

She hears her name, but for the first time she cannot stand to look at him. She senses he is gazing at her, brow knitted, head cocked, expecting an answer. That's what everyone wanted from her these days: answers. And for a moment, she hates him for betraying her like this, for being just like the rest of them.

Finally, she lowers her gaze to meet his and tries very hard to keep her voice steady, her expression unaffected. "Huh?"

"I asked you how you are."

She wants to shake him, wants to scream. Why do you have to ask me that? Like everyone else. Can't you see that I'm dying? She glances to see if he notices the bitterness, if he feels her frustration. She searches for any trace of recognition and finds no sign of it. There are so many things she wants to say. But she is afraid to speak. She, who told him that strong is fighting, that it's hard and painful and everyday. She, who told Angel he was a coward for wanting to let go. She, who is so tired of having to be strong and would like nothing better than to let go. What a fine example she'd make of herself. "I'm okay," she says, and is surprised by now easily the vague deception rolls off the tongue, easier with each recurrence. For good measure, she adds, "It's hard, this coming back from Hell business. I think you did it better."

Angel's face softens. He brushes the pad of his thumb along her cheek. "I had you to nurse me back to health, remember?" he returns with a sad smile.

"Yeah," she sighs and stares into his eyes that held not her reflection. She always thought it slightly disconcerting in the past, but now it seems fitting.

When Angel leaves before dawn Buffy does not watch him walk away.

Daybreak comes silently and simply, no more than a thin hem of roseate and she is a bit disappointed, because there is none of the glory of the previous sunset. Soon, the vaulted sky fades to a pale cerulean and she is already stripped down to her underwear and wading into the sea, cold salt stinging thighs. She swims for miles in smooth, even strokes until the coastline has diminished to a faint outline, barely visible. She swims until the scattered aches meld into a profound, enfolding pain and her limbs become boneless. And she feels a reckless urgency to accelerate, to throw herself forward, to become part of the ocean. It becomes clear that she could drown here, in the sea, alone. Still, she swims until she cannot feel her arms and legs moving beneath her, until the world washes away and there is only the seething, tossing sea and herself, an insignificant speck of flotsam drifting in the infinite blue.

She gazes back to shore and almost cannot see it. She decides to turn back then. The swim to shore would choose for her.

Several times, her lungs taste the bitter saltwater and for one electrifying, rapturous moment, she is certain she will not make it.

When she finally lands on the beach, she is gasping for breath. She falls to her hands and knees, and laughs and laughs, uninhibited and crazed because she does not know whether to feel defeated or relieved, until hot tears well up and brim over. She would not die—not today. Despite everything, something in her refuses to go so quietly.

She lowers herself into the driver's seat, feeling her muscles sore and ragged but strong as the engine roars to life. Maybe she does not have the luxury of escaping to a faraway sanctuary, but she has this. As her sodden, curling hair drips onto her new tank top and her mom's expensive leather interior, she reminds herself that there will be more sunsets like the last. And maybe, she thinks, I'll be there to see them.


End file.
